


The Man Who Never Smiled

by gloria_scott



Series: Lestrade/Wallander Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Wallander (UK TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Crossover, Drama, Law Enforcement, M/M, Police, Sexual Content, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-02
Updated: 2011-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:12:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade has a few drinks with Kurt Wallander and they really hit it off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conferences are Boring

**Author's Note:**

> (1) Originally written for a  [](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**sherlockbbc_fic**](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/) prompt [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=5927079#t5927079).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade has a few drinks with Kurt Wallander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [](http://catchoo152.livejournal.com/profile)[**catchoo152**](http://catchoo152.livejournal.com/) for the beta and [](http://midwicket.livejournal.com/profile)[**midwicket**](http://midwicket.livejournal.com/) for the Brit-pick!

  
  
  


  
  


  


  


He would have preferred the flavor of a local pub, but he doesn’t want to chance it. An Englishman wandering about Belfast, not knowing the lie of the land or the neighborhood he was in, still doesn’t sit well with Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Things had been quiet in Northern Ireland since September 11, 2001. Those IRA bastards were pros at playing the public opinion card, and they were savvy enough to realize public sentiment would be against them if they pulled anything. The powers-that-be at the APO-ACPO may have felt secure enough to host a policing conference here, but recent rumblings indicated that the beast was only slumbering, not dead. So, after suffering through the obligatory conference-sponsored dinner, checking in with his team in London, and popping up to his room for a quick shower, Greg grudgingly decides to make do with the hotel bar. 

He wanders in and pauses just inside the door, feeling decidedly out of place in this nouveau industrial décor of black and silver and red plush accents. He scans for a familiar face at the bar and among those seated at low tables in intimate groups of threes and fours, but none of his mates from the Met are about. He half-heartedly assesses his chances of finding some female companionship for the night and thinks fuck-all of his odds. Policing and, even more so, policing conferences are still primarily male domains. Besides, he hasn’t had the wherewithal to pick up a bird for a one-nighter in ages. Greg Lestrade is in the midst of a record-setting Serengeti dry season that is nobody’s fault but his own. He sighs, and looks for an empty seat at the bar.

He spots one of the speakers from the afternoon session, a Swede whose name now completely escapes him. Karl someone-or-other, perhaps. He does remember the presentation, though – _Community Policing among Diaspora Communities in Sweden_. It was one of the few he had been genuinely interested in attending. Greg was no stranger to the fatal sparks that the flint of Western mores striking the tinder of traditional cultures and radical ideologies could ignite – he and his team were the first investigators on scene at King’s Cross on 7/7. He tried keeping abreast of what other police organizations were doing on that front; best to learn from other people’s mistakes whenever possible – it saved you from having to make them yourself. 

For the most part, Greg thought the Swede’s talk was spot on. The man seemed to be motivated by a strong sense of social justice, tempered by an equally strong grasp of operational realities and real-world constraints, which Greg appreciated. He had thought about introducing himself afterwards, but despised the whole queuing-up-to-glad-hand-the-speaker routine. Instead he’d just kept to himself and slipped quietly out of the room in search of a decent cup of coffee and the next talk.

The Swede is alone now, staring into the depths of his whiskey glass, an empty bar stool beside him. He looks like he’s used to drinking alone, but Greg’s in the mood for some company. He approaches undeterred, and the Swede looks up. With a slight cock of his head he indicates the empty seat and the Swede nods. As he slides onto the bar stool, and before the Swede can withdraw his attention fully, Greg sticks out his hand.

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, London Metropolitan Police.” he says. They shake hands.

“Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector. Kurt Wallander, Ystad Police.”

“Please, call me Greg,” he offers, smiling

“Of course. And…Kurt,” the Swede replies. 

Greg flags down the barman and orders himself a pint of Guinness.

“Care for another?” 

Kurt nods. “Sure, thanks.”

The barman serves them up and Greg lifts his glass.

“Cheers,” he says, and takes a swig.

Kurt politely tips his glass in response. “Are you here for the conference?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Greg responds. “Christ, conferences are boring, aren’t they? Talking heads droning on and on over endless PowerPoint bullets. I wouldn’t bother with them at all, but it’s the closest thing I can get to a holiday these days.”

“Holiday?” Kurt asks, feigning incomprehension. “I’m sorry, what is that?”

Greg laughs. “It’s that thing where you don’t work fourteen hours a day for ten days straight and you go somewhere warm and have a lie down near a large body of water or a pool or something. Personally, I think it’s a myth.”

“Hmm,” Kurt intones his agreement and angles his body towards Greg, inviting further conversation.

“I caught your presentation earlier this afternoon,” Greg says, following immediately with, “It wasn’t boring.”

Kurt shoots him a sidelong look and turns back to his drink. 

“No, really,” Greg continues, feeling a bit chagrined. “I thought the bits about controlling information flow to the media were useful. I even took notes! And,” he adds, grinning, “at least you didn’t use bloody PowerPoint.”

“High praise, indeed. Thanks,” Kurt replies. He leans back in his chair and turns toward Greg again, apparently mollified.

Despite this stumbling start, they fall into an amiable conversation. Kurt’s willingness to talk surprises Greg; he seemed quite taciturn at first blush. But perhaps he’s as glad to have the company and a willing ear as Greg is. They hit an easy rhythm, trading war stories back and forth as old coppers do. Greg reaches back to his days as a Sergeant in the late 1990’s, relating the Met’s attempt to transition from its old-school, paramilitary law enforcement mentality to a focus on community engagement. He laughs recalling how the uniformed patrols would grumble about actually having to knock on doors and _talk_ to people. 

“It was a real slog, that, but I can see the difference it’s made now,” Greg says. “Even if the media and the public give us fuck-all credit for it.” 

Kurt nods in understanding and signals to the barman for another round. When he picks up the narrative, he remains grounded in the more immediate past, revealing additional pieces of the robbery-turned-murder case he had mentioned in his presentation that afternoon. His English is impeccable under its thick Scandinavian accent, but he speaks so quietly that Greg has a difficult time catching it all, and the grating and too-loud pop music blaring from the speakers at the other end of the bar isn’t helping, either. Greg scoots his seat closer in an effort to hear better, leaning in until their shoulders are nearly touching. 

In the companionable lulls of their talk, Greg studies his new acquaintance. Kurt’s short-cropped hair is more grey than blond, especially at the temples. He has an exceptionally pleasant and open face, despite the fact that Greg has yet to see him really smile. His eyes sometimes soften with amusement at Greg’s quips, but the expression never quite seems to reach his lips, which are set in a hard, thin line. Perpetual bags and dark circles accentuate his tired eyes, byproducts of the job as Greg knows only too well himself. He had assumed when he first saw him that Kurt was about his own age, but up close the man seems far older and world-weary in a way that is peculiar to coppers of a certain ilk, the ones that carry it all with them.

They’ve been talking for over an hour when Kurt takes a look at his watch. He finishes his drink and makes as if to leave.

“Well, I think I’m done for the night,” he says. 

Greg glances at his own watch – barely half nine. Still too early to turn in for the night, and he’s not keen on spending the remaining hours of the evening alone in his room. But the thought of sitting by himself in this faux-chrome nightmare of a bar is even less appealing, so he decides to go as well. He digs in his jacket pocket for one of his business cards and hands it to Kurt.

“Yeah, it was good talking with you. Maybe I’ll see you about tomorrow?” Greg asks.

Kurt nods, fishes out a card from his own wallet, and hands it to Greg, thus completing the age-old conference ritual. “Yes, probably. I’m here until Thursday.”

Greg downs the last of his pint and they leave the bar together. As they walk across the lobby towards the lifts they pass a crowd of fellow conference-goers in casual business wear and purple conference tags heading to the bar. They enter the lift alone and Greg’s hand hovers in front of the numbered buttons. 

“What floor?” he asks.

“Seven, please.”

Greg pushes seven and the doors close. His own room is on the fourth floor. He’s not sure why exactly, but he doesn’t bother pushing the button for it. They ride silently up together, and he follows Kurt out when the doors open.

Kurt walks down the thickly carpeted corridor with Greg half a pace behind. He turns right and Greg follows. There’s a flutter in Greg’s chest that he’s trying to ignore, and it grows stronger the farther they get from the lifts. Kurt slows his pace and then stops in front of room 718. 

“Well, this is me,” Kurt says and gestures vaguely towards the door. 

“Right, right,” Greg replies, nodding his head. “Should probably say goodnight, then.” 

“It was good meeting you.” Kurt extends a hand to him and Greg gives it a firm, two pump shake. 

“Right, likewise. Goodnight, then.” 

Kurt walks in and closes the door. Greg remains standing in the corridor for a moment with his hands in his trouser pockets, staring at the door and grinding his teeth. When he makes his way back to the bank of lifts, he feels anxious and annoyed with himself for no reason that he can name.

***

The next day, Greg sees Kurt talking with one of the conference organizers in the foyer near the registration tables. He keeps his eyes on the man until Kurt makes eye contact with him, and they acknowledge each other with a friendly nod. The chimes sound, indicating the start of the first sessions, and Greg loses him in the sudden press of people.After that, he finds himself trying to catch sight of Kurt again each time he walks into a session break-out room, or out into the foyer between sessions, or during the coffee breaks. By the time he enters the main ballroom for lunch, he’s almost decided to hunt Kurt down and invite himself to the man’s table, when he feels a tug on his elbow. 

“Oi, Lestrade. Looking for some company?” He turns around, and there’s a stout, red-faced D.I. beaming at him – Ron Harney from the Met’s Intelligence Bureau. Nice enough bloke, if a bit crass at times, Lestrade recalls.

“Yeah, I was, uh, looking for somebody, but he doesn’t seem to be here.”

“Well come on then, old boy. Sit with us.”

Greg accepts, and spends lunch with Harney and a few others from the IB. They’re a decent lot, and Greg winds up talking and laughing with them for the hour, though he could have done without Harney’s fondness for hooker jokes and his misapprehension that the word ‘tits’ is funny enough to be a punch line all on its own.

By the beginning of the first session of the afternoon, Greg is thoroughly sick of Harney, who has attached himself to Greg’s side, seemingly intent on following him to every session for the rest of the afternoon. By the beginning of the second session, Greg is thoroughly sick of Harney, every bloody boring speaker, and the whole damn conference. By the beginning of the final session, Greg is planning his escape. 

The session finally ends at four. When Harney excuses himself to use the toilet, Greg seizes the opportunity to get lost. He hurries up to his room and grabs his coat. Once he’s back downstairs in the lobby, he approaches the concierge.

“Any chance there’s somewhere nearby I could find a good bottle of whiskey?” 

“Yes sir, there’s a wine and spirits shop just up the street a ways. Out the door and to the left, can’t miss it.”

He thanks the concierge and exits the hotel. Once outside, he buttons his coat up against the blustery March wind and sets off. Within five minutes he’s inside the shop, perusing their rather impressive selection of blended and single malt whiskeys. _The Irish do love their drink_ , he thinks, _God bless them for that_. He hadn’t paid attention to what the barman had poured for Kurt the night before, so he decides to indulge his own tastes. He selects a    
£   
74 bottle of 18-year old Macallan Sherry Oak. It’s a bit extravagant, especially if he winds up drinking it alone since he won’t be able to take what’s left on the flight home. It would make one wicked tip for the cleaning crew. _Ah, what the hell_ , he thinks and hands the cashier his card.

He heads directly back to the hotel and up to his room where he sets the bottle on a small table next to the window, takes off his coat, jacket and shoes, and hops onto the bed. After flipping around the channels for a few minutes he finally settles on a local news program, though he has difficulty focusing on it. Within a quarter of an hour or so he gives it up and opts for a hot shower instead. By the time he’s finished primping and dressing, it’s about half five. He heads downstairs to see about dinner. 

There are two restaurants in the hotel, and the steak house wins out easily over the Asian fusion joint with the pretentiously un-pronounceable name. Within seconds of Greg entering the restaurant, Harney appears at his side again, seemingly from nowhere.

“There you are, Lestrade! I thought I’d lost you for good. Have a seat with me and Crenshaw, will you?” Harney says and claps him on the back.

“Sure, of course,” Greg replies, forcing a smile and thinking, _Christ, if I didn’t know better I’d think he was stalking me_. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he says, turning to Harney’s companion and offering his hand. “Greg Lestrade.”

“No, don’t think we have, though I’ve certainly heard of you. Miles Crenshaw, Protection Command.”

They’re soon seated and looking over their menus.Greg orders the rib-eye and a pint of Smithwick’s. When the waiter leaves, Greg scans the dining room and sees Kurt sitting a few tables away. He’s with two other men and a woman – a modestly attractive brunette. He wonders if she’s attached to one of the other blokes at the table, but before he can make any observations in support of that theory or otherwise, Crenshaw’s asking him about the damn suicide murders from January. Greg tells him the mad cabbie’s tale, glossing over the bits about Sherlock Holmes as much as he can, until their food arrives.

He does his best to remain engaged throughout dinner, politely nodding and responding to Harney and Crenshaw as they gab about work and football, but he’s distracted. Each time he glances over to Kurt’s table he sees the man deep in conversation with his companions, seemingly oblivious to his presence. He’s inexplicably irritated by this, but he tamps the feeling down and turns his attention back to Crenshaw’s inane story about rescuing a Saudi diplomat’s son from a knife-wielding prostitute. By the time they finish their meal Greg is more than ready to leave, so when Harney insists on ordering a currant tart for afters, his irritation only deepens. He orders a coffee and tries to muster his patience with little success.

Harney finishes up his tart and they settle the bill. Greg looks over to Kurt’s table once more and sees that they’re still on their coffee. He briefly considers going over to say hello, but decides against intruding. Instead, he follows Harney and Crenshaw out of the restaurant. Before he can think of a delicate way to extricate himself from them, Harney’s inviting him for a drink.

“Sorry, no. I’m a bit knackered – didn’t sleep well last night,” Greg replies.

“Oh, come on, Lestrade,” Harney’s needles him. “How often do you get to go out with the boys without the wife bitching at you for it?”

“Really, no,” Lestrade says, and he can hear the annoyance leaking into his voice now. He tries to moderate it when he adds, “I’m really just going to turn in early.”

Harney relents. “Suit yourself,” he replies with a shrug, and heads off to the bar with Crenshaw. 

Once he’s safely away and back in his room, Greg sinks down into one of the striped upholstered chairs next to the table and stares at the bottle of Macallan in its blue box. He considers breaking open the bottle himself, but that would defeat the whole purpose, wouldn’t it? In spite of his having had dinner companions tonight, Greg would put money on Kurt winding up alone at the bar again…or alone in his room _. And really_ , he thinks, _what’s the point of the two of us being alone in different places when we could be alone together? For fuck’s sake, I’m not even making any sense_. He sighs heavily and passes a hand over his eyes. 

It’s not, after all, such a difficult decision for Greg to make. He doesn’t want to be alone, and he certainly doesn’t want to go to that wretched bar again. He couldn’t, anyway, since he blew off Harney’s invite. He goes to the closet and rummages in the pocket of the jacket he wore last night. He takes out Kurt’s card and looks at it for a moment. It’s a bit worn and tattered about the edges, not unlike the man himself. He punches the number into his mobile and selects _SMS Text_ from the menu.

 _  
Picked up a bottle of single malt. You game? – Greg Lestrade    
_

****   


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Originally written for a [](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**sherlockbbc_fic**](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/) prompt [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=5927079#t5927079).  
>  (2) Title is a riff on the title of a BBC Wallander episode in which our lovely Rupert Graves co-stars.  
> (3) APO = Association of Police Authorities; ACPO = Association of Chief Police Officers  
> (4) 7/7 refers to the London bombings of July 7, 2005.  
> (5) Takes place in the BBC Wallander universe sometime between <i>The Man Who Smiled</i> and <i>The Fifth Woman</i>, and in the BBC Sherlock universe around the time of <i>The Blind Banker</i> (heck, it could even be why Lestrade's missing from <i>TBB</i>). It's unlikely that these two time lines actually match up, though.  
> 


	2. Conferences are Boring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg seeks a more physical connection, and Kurt obliges.

  


****  


Greg jumps when the mobile on the table next to him buzzes, indicating a received text message. His heart continues to hammer as he reads the response to his invitation.

 _Come by around 8:00? – Kurt_

That means he has an hour or so to kill. He spends the time calling Sergeant Donovan for a status update, checking his email messages, pacing the room, and ignoring the telly. At five minutes to eight, he grabs the bottle of Macallan, removes it from its box, and heads out.

Greg knocks on the door of room 718 promptly at 8:00. Kurt opens the door and welcomes him with a handshake, then guides him into the room with a firm hand on the middle of his back. The room is a carbon-copy of his own but for different mass-market paintings over the bed – a drab landscape instead of pheasants – and blue stripes on the upholstered chairs instead of green. There’s a bottle of water, a small bucket of ice, and two glass tumblers ready on the table between the chairs. Greg hands the bottle over to Kurt.

“Hope this’ll do,” he says.

Kurt nods and replies that it will do nicely. He pours out a measure of whiskey into each glass and hands one to Greg, who opts for a few cubes of ice, and they each take a seat on either side of the table.

“Skål,” Kurt toasts, raising his glass.

“Cheers, mate!” Greg replies, and they drink.

When he feels the first warm flush from the alcohol working its magic on him, Greg finally starts to relax. He’s just relieved to be there, away from the garishness and noise of the bar and the empty solitude of his hotel room. Kurt’s calm and easy manner puts him further at ease, and the knot of anxiety that had been tied around his guts for most of the afternoon begins to uncoil.

Their conversation takes a more meandering pace this evening, a gentle back and forth that finds its own way through the landscape of their lives. They compare the relative merits of blended versus single malt whiskey, both agreeing on the superiority of single malt (although Kurt prefers Glenmorangie). They share memories of holidays spent with family on the coast (a caravan park in Brighton for Greg, a picturesque bed and breakfast in Skagen for Kurt), and compare favorite eateries (the pizzeria on Hamngatan that makes a fantastic kebab pizza, the Thai place on Broadway with the killer red curry). They talk for hours, the diminishing amber level of the bottle between them slowly marking the passage of time.

As the evening wears on, a niggling thought begins to flutter around the edges of Greg’s mind. He had spent the better part of the day trying to get close to this man, and now here he is sitting right next to him and he should be content – target achieved. But it’s not enough. The two feet separating them might as well be two miles. As they talk, he finds himself leaning forward over the table, cradling his drink in front of him with both hands. He reaches out farther with each gesture he makes to emphasize a point, hoping to be met half-way across the expanse.

Kurt remains relaxed, leaning back in his chair on the other side of that impossible distance. There is a deep and languid undercurrent of melancholy flowing just beneath the man’s placid surface. Greg believes that, if he looks deeply enough, he could see the faces of every victim of murder, rape, and senseless violence from every case the man has ever worked reflected back. He’s seen it before – his old boss, Chief Inspector Scott, had been as much a cautionary tale as he’d been a mentor. The old sod had cared so deeply about the broken, dead and dying he had nothing left to spare for the whole and the living. His wife had left him, his children wouldn’t have anything to do with him, and he had finally died alone at the bottom of a gin and tonic.

“Still married, then?” Greg asks with a slight nod to Kurt’s left hand.

Kurt momentarily splays the fingers of his left hand to glance at the ring, then curls them around his glass again.

“Divorced, actually.” He raises the glass to his lips. “And you?” he asks, before taking a sip.

“Widower.”

“How long?”

“Eight years this past December.”

A brief silence follows, then, “You never thought…”

“…to take it off?” Each stumbles over the other with the same question. Greg smiles awkwardly at that, stares at the drink in his hands. He doesn’t want to be the first to answer it. Or even to answer it at all, really.

Kurt looks at him thoughtfully in silence for a few moments, then sets his glass down and reaches over the table to take hold of Greg’s left hand in both of his own. Kurt’s hands are rough and warm, and Greg’s breathing quickens at the touch. They remain like that for the space of a few heartbeats, though it feels far longer to Greg. Kurt starts fiddling with Greg’s wedding band, twisting it around a few times before slowly drawing it off.

“It’s the wrong finger,” he explains quietly. He reaches for Greg’s right hand. Greg gives it to him, and he slides the ring onto the third finger.

It is such an intimate gesture, such an intrusion into Greg’s past, that he feels he should perhaps object. But he doesn’t. He leaves the ring in its new place, fingering it lightly with the thumb of his right hand.

Kurt withdraws his hands and recedes into the distance once again. Greg tries to bridge the expanse with a joke.

“So,” he grins, “which is the right finger for divorce?”

Kurt laughs at that – not just a smile but an honest, rolling laugh. It brightens his whole face like a sudden sunburst in a storm, but passes just as quickly, and he melts back into the melancholy of a grey, autumn rain. They fall into a companionable silence, the only sound being the rattle of the heating and the occasional clink of ice against glass.

But Greg’s mind is uneasy now. It’s nearing the point in the evening – and the bottle – when he should either retain some dignity and call it a night, or stay, help drink the rest of the bottle, and pass out. While hardly professional, at least the latter would give him an excuse not to go back to his room alone. His body aches with a chill that has settled deep into the marrow of his bones, made all the colder now for having experienced that fleeting bit of warmth in Kurt’s touch. He doesn’t want to leave, and Kurt gives no indication that he is tiring of the company, or the Scotch. Greg’s tapping foot begins to telegraph his restlessness, so he excuses himself to use the toilet.

“Back in a mo.”

He takes a piss, washes his hands, looks at himself in the mirror, and asks himself _just what the hell do you thinks you’re doing, mate?_ Of course, he knows what he’s after – what he’s been after since the night before – but only now does he let the thought finally bubble up to the surface of his consciousness. He really should just leave, but the need for warmth and connection that he’s denied for so long is overpowering. And, unless he is much mistaken, he feels that need radiating off of Kurt, too. _I mean, what was that thing with the ring, anyway?_ _Practically a written invitation_.

Once Greg makes his decision he acts without hesitation. He enters and crosses the room, not stopping until he reaches Kurt’s chair. He stands between Kurt’s open legs, his knees just brushing the fabric of the chair. Kurt lifts his head and his body tenses; he seems to be holding his breath. Greg keeps his gaze steady, questioning, searching for a sign, a signal, a yes, please, do. Kurt’s face is impassive, and Greg’s resolve begins to waver – had he got it wrong? Then, finally, Kurt exhales. He parts his lips slightly, and gives an almost imperceptible nod.

Greg drops to his knees. He undoes Kurt’s belt with shaking hands, un-tucks his shirt, unzips and pulls his trousers and pants down to his thighs. There is no prelude – he takes Kurt’s length into his mouth, tonguing and sucking it gently. He continues for several long minutes, but Kurt remains stubbornly flaccid, and begins to shift uncomfortably in his chair.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think this is going to work,” Kurt says. “It’s the whiskey,” he adds as explanation, apology.

Greg stops, pulls away. Searching Kurt’s face, he sees only sadness, not anger or disgust. He’s not willing to just give up once he’s started this. Tenacious as a bulldog when he understands what he has to do, Sherlock had once said of him. Of course, it had been immediately preceded by the observation that he was absolutely devoid of reason. All reason certainly seems to have escaped him now, but he knows what he has to do – cross the divide, make contact.

Greg slowly unbuttons Kurt’s shirt, then slides Kurt’s trousers and pants down to his ankles, exposing as much skin as possible. Kurt offers no objection, and Greg begins running his hands over the pale skin of Kurt’s thighs, his hips, the curves of his belly. There is a vertical scar just over Kurt’s heart running the length of his chest – like a frost crack in an otherwise hale beech tree. Greg leans in and traces the line of the scar with his tongue, eliciting a sharp intake of breath, before nuzzling his face into the soft, greying hair of Kurt’s chest. He reaches between Kurt’s thighs and begins a rhythmic tug and pull – firm and slow and deliberate – until finally his efforts begin to pay off. He moves down, pushing Kurt’s legs farther apart, and takes Kurt’s finally full erection into his mouth.

Despite Greg’s efforts and eagerness to please, Kurt shows little outward response – his hands grip the armrests of the chair and he is completely still but for the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. _I know I’m a bit out of practice at this, but come on_ , Greg thinks. Kurt’s giving him nothing to go on, nothing at all to indicate that what he’s doing is right. He withdraws again, considering his next move. He licks his lips, then brushes them against soft skin, inhaling its musky scent, and meets Kurt’s eyes.

“Tell me what to do.”

 _No, that’s not quite right._

“Show me,” he tries again. “Show me how you like it.”

Kurt hesitates, then reaches down and brushes his fingers lightly along Greg’s lips, jawline, and cheek, before threading them into his hair. He sets the pace, guiding Greg’s head with one hand, stroking himself with the other. Finally, his hips come undone and start a soft, rhythmic pulse. His breath quickens, and a soft moan hitches in the back of his throat. Greg smiles when he hears it, feeling a bit triumphant that he’s able to get even that much of a response.

There’s hardly any warning at all when Kurt comes, shooting a thick, hot stream all over Greg’s lips and chin. Before Greg can even wipe it away, Kurt lunges forward, all apologies.

“I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry.”

Greg leans back, startled. “What for?”

Kurt’s hand shakes as he reaches out and wipes Greg’s lips clean with his thumb. The panic in his eyes is painful to see, and Greg’s only thought is to soothe it. He catches Kurt by the wrist and slowly brings the soiled thumb to his mouth, sucking it clean. Kurt watches silently, then slides out of the chair onto the floor. He pulls Greg to him, and Greg folds into his embrace.

Kurt reaches under Greg’s shirt to stroke his back, finally giving him some of the contact he has been craving. He shudders and melts into the warmth of the other man’s body.

“Please,” Kurt’s lips brush the hair on Greg’s forehead as he whispers.

“Stay.”

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The bulldog line is lifted from ACD canon -- _His Last Bow_


	3. Finding Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next round is on Kurt.

****

  


****

Greg wakes up to the room spinning around him. Or maybe it’s the bed, spinning like a turntable with him as the record. The feeling’s not unpleasant, until he opens his eyes and tries to focus on something, anything, and becomes completely disoriented. He picks one of the striped chairs, since it’s in his immediate field of vision, and ties an anchor to it, waiting out the ride as the revolutions slow and finally stop. 

He’s on his stomach, one arm and the lower part of one leg hanging off the side of the bed. His head feels too big and his throat’s dry. He briefly considers getting up to get some water, but decides walking would be too much trouble. Closing his eyes again he rolls over onto his back, sighing heavily. 

His mind slowly drifts to the events of the night before, trying to piece together how he had come to be lying half off the bed, and not quite believing he had actually done the things he remembered doing. His thoughts skirt quickly around those things, coming to rest on the memory of him lying against Kurt’s half-naked body on the floor. Kurt had urged them up and, discarding the remnants of his clothes, climbed into bed. Greg had stripped down to his boxers and joined him, nestling close against his side. Once between the sheets, they had both fallen asleep almost immediately, leaving him with more than a bit of an itch still left to scratch. 

He opens his eyes and turns his head. In the dim pre-dawn light, he can see Kurt lying on his back next him, awake and watching.

“Weren’t you on the other side of me when we went to sleep?” Greg asks, his voice still thick from sleep.

“Yes, but you damn near shoved me off.”

“Sorry,” Greg laughs, “guess I’m just used to sleeping on the left side of the bed.”

“I see,” Kurt says. He rolls onto his side and props himself up on one elbow, resting his head in the palm of his hand. “Do you do this often, then?”

“Do what?”

“Pick up lonely old men at conferences?”

The question cuts slightly, and Greg feels the smile fade from his lips. He covers for it with exaggerated indignation. 

“Old men? You can’t be more than a few years older than me, and I’m not old, mate. Don’t let the grey hair fool you.” 

“All right, all right!” Kurt laughs, raising his free hand, palm outward in a token of peace.

Somewhat appeased, Greg curls up on his side to face Kurt, scooting close enough to lay his head on Kurt’s pillow. “So just how long have you been lonely, old man?” he teases. 

“Are you asking how long it’s been since I’ve had sex?” Kurt asks, with a gruffness Greg hopes is feigned – he’s a bit of a difficult read.

“Well, yeah. If you want to be crude about it,” Greg replies, smiling.

“Three, four months…I don’t know” Kurt answers, waving a hand dismissively. “Longer before that. What about you, then?”

Greg instantly regrets opening the door to this line of questioning. The truth of the matter is it’s coming up on a year since his last shag, and that had been a disappointing affair with a pretty blonde A&E nurse. Falling into bed with her that one time was something he’d done more because it was expected of him than because he’d really been interested. But a year seems just too pathetic to cop to, so he lies.

“Ah, you know, six months, give or take,” he says, not meeting Kurt’s eyes. He stirs uncomfortably and then adds, “Maybe a bit more.”

There is a long pause during which Greg focuses intently on the muffled sounds of early morning traffic leaking through the closed window, until Kurt breaks the relative silence once more.

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

It’s an unexpected follow up, and Greg forgets his discomfort for a moment, looking up at Kurt searchingly, seeing a face clouded with concern. A fragment of a picture of the man is revealed by the framing of his question. One thing Greg’s learned in his long years of police work: projection is the devil’s mirror.

 _  
Why would you do that to yourself?   
_

Meaning, _why would you punish yourself that way?_

So, Kurt’s been punishing himself…for what? Greg finds himself wanting to know every transgression the man has committed, perceived or otherwise. But this isn’t an interrogation, so he holds his tongue on the matter.

“I don’t know. There were opportunities, I suppose. I just…It all started to seem so hollow, if you know what I mean. Just…not what I was looking for.”

A long moment of silence settles over them. Kurt reaches out and lays a hand on his forearm, rubbing a thumb gently over the skin of his wrist. Tension starts to mount in the pit of his stomach again, yet he hardly dares hope for anything more to happen between them, particularly not in the growing light of day and the waning influence of alcohol. Unfortunately, the growing hardness between his legs isn’t apt to listen to reason. 

Kurt stops stroking his wrist, but doesn’t move his hand away. 

“Did you find what you were looking for here?” he asks quietly.

Greg licks his lips, debating how well a lie might serve him this time, but truth takes the initiative and answers for him in a husky whisper. “Not quite.”

The air between them is thick with anticipation now, like the breathless moments between the crack of lightening and the roll of thunder. He can feel Kurt’s hand trembling slightly against his skin. 

“What you did last night,” Kurt says, “I’m not really comfortable reciprocating. I’ve never really done _this_ before, you see.”

Greg thinks he does see, and he backs off quickly. “No, no. It’s ok,” he says, sitting up. “It’s fine, really. I don’t…you don’t have to if you don’t want…”

“But I _want_ to want to,” Kurt interrupts his stammering placations with a gentle laugh. He gestures for Greg to lie down again and he does. Kurt pulls him close, wrapping his arms about Greg’s shoulders. Greg relaxes against Kurt’s chest, trying to work out what he should do next, and finally settles on nothing. Let Kurt take the lead this time.

Kurt runs a hand firmly up and down Greg’s back for several long minutes, then up into his hair. Greg’s resolve for patience fails him rather quickly, and he nuzzles eagerly into Kurt’s neck, grazing his teeth along the rough, stubbled skin below Kurt’s jaw. 

Kurt pulls away and gazes at him, his eyes glistening with an intensity that makes it difficult for Greg to withstand. After only a brief moment Greg lowers his eyes, but Kurt places a hand under his chin, tilting his head up, until he relents and meets Kurt’s gaze once again. 

“Would you like me to tell you what to do?” he asks, voice low.

Words catch like dry leaves in Greg’s throat, so he just nods. _Yes_. _Please, yes._

“Take your boxers off.”

A moment’s hesitation, then he rolls over onto his back and does as he’s commanded. His breathing quickens as he watches Kurt’s eyes rove over the length of his body. Kurt moves closer until they’re pressed up against each other. He reaches down and runs a hand along Greg’s thigh while nudging a knee underneath it.

“Spread your legs,” he says and Greg obliges, hooking one knee over Kurt’s legs. Greg’s never felt so self-conscious and exposed, and he shivers and presses himself closer into the other man’s body. Kurt then grasps him by the wrist and places his hand between his legs.

“Show me,” Kurt says, echoing Greg’s words of the night before. He hesitates again before slowly encircling his fingers around his own erection. This isn’t exactly what he’d had in mind. Feeling exposed like this is arousing, but his frustration makes him pause. He can always play with himself on his own time – he wants someone else’s hands on him now. But Kurt is gazing at him expectantly, gently drifting a hand through the fur of Greg’s stomach. Closing his eyes, he tries to relax and get into a rhythm…a rather dry rhythm.

He gathers up as much saliva as his dry mouth will allow and spits into his hand before resuming. His movements are easier now, and he starts to pant slightly and grind his hips into the bed. He feels Kurt shift next to him, then a strong hand overlays his own, keeping time with his strokes. He bucks up harder, moaning softly. With each pass he gradually loosens his grip, until finally Kurt allows him to pull his hand away and takes over. 

“Come on,” Kurt murmurs a soft encouragement to him and Greg answers by thrusting harder. Kurt seems to respond to his vocalizations, tightening his grip and quickening his pace with every moan and throaty supplication to God that escapes Greg’s lips, so he lets them fall more freely. 

Then, “Come on!” sharper this time, more demanding. Greg cedes control of his movements, thrusting erratically into Kurt’s hand. He curls his fists into the sheets and comes, loudly. 

Kurt doesn’t give him time to recover before pushing him over onto his stomach. Greg gasps as Kurt runs a come-spattered hand into the cleft of his arse. Feeling Kurt slide between his legs, he instinctively arches his back, raising his hips in invitation. Kurt kisses and nips his way up Greg’s spine, until suddenly he lets out a frustrated groan and drops his head down between Greg’s shoulder blades.

“I haven’t any condoms.”

 _  
Jesus Christ!    
_   
Greg thinks. _Who the fuck goes to a conference without condoms?_

He slides out from under Kurt and off the bed to find his trousers. Rifling frantically through the pockets, he grabs a foil packet from his wallet, presses it into Kurt’s hand and repositions himself on the bed, hoping the delay hasn’t allowed Kurt to reconsider what he was just offering. 

He needn’t have worried. Kurt’s on him again, digging insistent fingers into his hips.

“Up! On your knees,” he commands. 

Greg obeys instantly, rising up onto his knees and elbows, and Kurt is pushing into him lubed only with his own spit and Greg’s come. It hurts – Greg hasn’t done this in years, decades even – and he knows he’s wincing with every thrust. His voice sounds pinched and high in his own ears, but Kurt doesn’t ask him if he wants to stop, and he’s glad. He doesn’t want to stop. Even pain is better than the empty numbness that has settled over him like a damp sea fog this past year. 

Just when he thinks he can no longer bear it, there is a sudden shift and the pain becomes something else – a hot ember of pleasure at the base of his spine pulsing out through every nerve of his body. He relaxes, dropping his head down and pressing his face into the cool sheets. His moans become low-pitched grunts, guttural and raw. As if waiting for this cue, Kurt picks up the pace and Greg begins to match him thrust for thrust. 

“Down.” Kurt throws his weight against him, pushing Greg forward so that he’s lying completely prone, and pounds him mercilessly into the bed. He feels the stuttering rhythm of the other man’s release through an endorphin-induced haze, and is only vaguely aware of Kurt rolling off of his back and grabbing him roughly by the arm. 

“Come here!” Kurt growls and pulls him around into a crushing embrace, fisting a hand into Greg’s hair to force his head back and kissing and biting his neck and shoulder. Greg doesn’t fight this sudden aggression, but instead relaxes into it. He presses his face into Kurt’s skin, inhaling the scent of whiskey mingling heavily with sweat, until the aftershocks of Kurt’s orgasm subside and they both lie still.

Greg falls asleep again, waking a few hours later to a gentle touch on his shoulder. He blinks to ward off the brightness of the sun streaming through the half-open curtains. When his eyes finally focus he sees Kurt sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning over him, a faint smile playing on his lips. 

“It’s 9:30, you have about an hour before check out,” he says.

He goes to move away, but Greg quickly sits up and grabs him by the arm, pulling him back. Their lips meet for the first time and, despite all that they had done, it is this gentle, eager dance of lips and tongue and teeth that seems the most intimate. Greg snakes his arms up around Kurt’s neck, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. His skin burns and thrums, still aching with a hunger he thought had been sated. 

Kurt reluctantly pulls away from the kiss, but Greg’s arms still hold tight about his neck. He presses his clean-shaven cheek against Greg’s forehead. Inhaling deeply, Greg breathes in the scent of soap and shave cream that has replaced the acrid tang of whiskey from earlier that morning.

“Please,” Kurt laughs. “I have to go.” 

His voice is pleading and Greg believes that, if he had a mind to, he could probably make Kurt miss his flight. Thinking better of it, he relents and loosens his grip, placing a final kiss on the corner of Kurt’s mouth. He lies back down, curls onto his side, and closes his eyes against the too-bright light and the growing ache in his head. Kurt rises, and the sound of his footsteps slowly recede. When Greg hears the door click shut he opens his eyes again and rolls onto his back. He stares blankly at the ceiling for a few long minutes, then passes a hand over his face, exhaling loudly.

“What in the hell was all of _that_?”

****

 


	4. Background Checks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurt returns home in a much better mood than when he left; Greg is curious about his enigmatic new acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand and one thanks to the talented [](http://the0neru.livejournal.com/profile)[**the0neru**](http://the0neru.livejournal.com/) for creating the web page graphics you see in the text! I've included smaller versions of the graphics here so they don't cause issues with the page download or the formatting - you can click on each of the "web pages" to see the full size version.

****  


****

He keeps having sudden sensory flashbacks as he drives from the airport back to Ystad – the heat of Greg’s body beneath him, the taste of his lips, the sound of his pleasure. The last thing Kurt wants to do is go home to an empty house, so he decides to go directly back to the office, hoping there will be something to do there to distract him. He stops in at the shop just across from the station to pick up a late lunch – he hasn’t eaten but for a granola bar on the flight and he’s feeling a bit light-headed.

He enters the station and passes Höglund in the hallway on the way to his office. 

“Oh, hi,” she says, looking a bit surprised. “Thought you were out until Friday. How was the conference?”

“Fine, fine,” he replies without stopping. He steps into his office and parks his suitcase just inside the door. Tossing the bag with his lunch onto the desk, he sits down and then boots up his computer. The next half hour is spent eating a terribly bland sandwich and answering email messages.

When he’s read through the last of the new messages, he wanders down the hall to check in with Chief Holgersson. She looks up from some paperwork as he knocks and steps into her office.

“Hello, Kurt,” Holgersson says. “I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow?”

“I got in early enough, I thought I’d stop by and see how things were going,” he replies.

“It’s been quiet for a change,” she says. “There’ve been a few cash machine robberies over the past two days, but Magnus is handling those. Really, there’s nothing for you to do here, Kurt. Take the rest of the day and relax.”

“I’ll have Magnus brief me on the robberies,” he counters and turns to leave.

Holgersson shakes her head and sighs. “Suit yourself.”

Magnus is visibly irritated when Kurt insists on the briefing, and tersely walks him through the investigation to date – three robberies in two days, each occurring at different cash machines, the last incident ending in a serious assault as the victim had resisted. Two suspects, white, early twenties, probably junkies. The areas around each of the banks have been canvassed for witnesses, and pictures of the suspects taken from the banks’ security cameras have been provided to uniformed patrols. Magnus seems to have the investigation well in hand – there’s nothing terribly complicated about it, after all. Kurt still asks to review the files, and Magnus agrees through gritted teeth. 

Kurt returns to his office and decides he might as well complete his expense report for the conference trip while he’s waiting for the case files. Emptying the contents of his pockets, he sets his mobile, wallet, a collection of business cards, some loose pound notes, and a few crumpled receipts onto his desk. He retrieves a few more receipts out of his wallet, and then brings up an expense report spreadsheet on his computer. The mundane task has no hold on his mind, and he drifts back to the pleasant burn of whiskey in the back of his throat and the sound of Greg’s laughter in his ears.

His reverie is broken when Höglund appears in his doorway. 

“Files for the cash machine robberies. Magnus asked me to bring them to you.”

He smiles, beckoning her in, and she approaches his desk. As she hands him the files she gives him a sidelong look, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“You seem to be in an awfully good mood today,” she says.

“Don’t worry, it won’t last,” he answers dryly. 

“Well anyway, that must have been quite a conference,” she laughs. “Meet someone special? Or did you just need some time away from the lot of us?”

“Out!” He shoos her away with feigned irritation, and she purses her lips in a tight smile before leaving. 

Kurt waits for her footsteps to recede down the hall before turning back to his computer. He pulls up the web browser and types in the search terms: _lestrade london police_. The search retrieves several articles detailing high-profile murder cases. _Homicide detective, then_ , Kurt thinks. _Probably enough of that work in a city like London to keep him busy_.

[   
](http://i83.photobucket.com/albums/j313/gloria_scott/fic_graphics/timesASiParticlescreenshot1.jpg)

  
  
The most recent article is from January and mentions a string of serial suicides. Kurt spends the next twenty minutes or so reading through the news archives, piecing together scraps of the other man’s career, and paying particular attention to any quotes attributed to him. He notes with some amusement that D.I. Lestrade could be quite indelicate when speaking to the press, a trait they apparently share.  


He searches for just images next and comes across a few of Greg looking rather dour at a press conference – not at all the jovial version of the person he had met who had been so quick with a smile or joke.  


[   
](http://i83.photobucket.com/albums/j313/gloria_scott/fic_graphics/lestradeimagespageversion2.jpg)

  
He usually finds people like that irritating; they’re either looking for attention and approval or trying to get one up on you, bootlickers or bullies. But Greg struck him as warm and genuine – a good-natured person who’s strategy for dealing with tension tended toward the judicious use of humor. He had made Kurt feel at ease, which was a rarity. So often he felt anxious with other people, even those he knew well. 

But that isn’t enough to explain what happened between them, now is it? In his adult life he’d had a total of three significant relationships, all with women, one to whom he’d been married for eighteen years. Not only had he never been with a man, the possibility had never even crossed his mind. 

_  
So why now?    
_

The question nags at him and he worries it like a dog with a bone, trying to shake clear some plausible explanation. He suspects a sort of unholy alchemy was to blame, involving the booze, his own aching loneliness, and the relative anonymity of a foreign city. But his mind keeps taking him back to the image of Greg kneeling between his legs, the naked desire in his eyes as he ran his hands over every inch of exposed skin, the way he had responded to Kurt’s touch, the way he’d kept wanting more. Kurt wasn’t used to it – this feeling of being _wanted_. More often than not he felt like an interloper in bed, someone whose intrusions were merely tolerated. To be desired was something altogether new, and more intoxicating to him than any alcohol could have been. 

The mobile on the desk suddenly buzzes to life and he jumps, hastily clicking the browser window shut like he’s been caught red-handed. His heart thuds loudly in his ears as he picks the mobile up and glares at it. 

_  
Mind if I txt or call you, for little or no reason? – Greg   
_

When he sees the sender’s name his annoyance quickly melts. He sits staring at the message for a few moments, lips quirking into a smile, before replying.

***

Greg arrives back at Heathrow around one and waits until he’s grabbed a seat on the Express train to turn his mobile back on. Once it finds a connection it immediately starts buzzing – five missed texts. He clicks through to the messages with a slight twinge of anticipation, wondering if one of them might perhaps be from Kurt. No such luck. The first is from Donovan, asking for his ETA back at the office. The other four are from Sherlock, each exactly five minutes apart, starting almost from the moment the plane touched down.

_  
Bring me the Murphy files. – SH   
_

_  
Immediately, if not sooner. – SH    
_

_  
Your flight landed 10 min. ago. Confirm intention to bring files. – SH    
_

_  
Lestrade! – SH    
_

Up until that moment, he had been feeling remarkably relaxed – it’s amazing what a good shag can do for the nerves. As he reads through Sherlock’s texts, however, he begins to feel the tension creeping back into his shoulders like a slowly coiling rope. He sighs heavily and types a terse response.

_  
Ask Donovan.   
_

The reply comes within moments.

_  
Asked and denied. Repeatedly. – SH    
_

The coils tighten into knots and his head begins to ache again. He decides to concede the matter, at least partially, in order to preserve whatever remnants of tranquility he has left to him.

_  
I’ll bring them by in the morning.   
_

His mobile buzzes again before he can even place it back in his jacket pocket.

_  
Today. Your absence has already caused an irritating and unnecessary delay. – SH   
_

Greg clenches his jaw to keep himself from swearing aloud. There is simply no way he’s going over to Baker Street today, certainly not to deliver a bloody cold case file. Sherlock would take one look at him and know every filthy detail of every filthy thing he’d done that morning and the night before – he’s sure of it. 

_  
Tomorrow or not at all – your choice.   
_

He waits a full minute before pocketing the mobile, taking Sherlock’s lack of response for acquiescence. At least he hopes that’s what it is – the last thing he needs is for His Majesty to show up at the Yard unexpectedly. Greg pushes the thought away and closes his eyes, trying to relax for the remainder of the brief trip. 

He takes a cab from the train station, and during the ride his lack of sleep catches up and overtakes him. By the time he gets to the Yard he’s feeling tired and disheveled. All he wants is a strong cup of coffee and half an hour or so locked in his office to get his bearings. But even that brief respite is simply not to be. As soon as he gets off the lift he’s swept up in the frenetic bustle of the place. He’s barely set his travel case and garment bag down in his office before Donovan comes to collect him for a team briefing. 

“You look a bit rough. Late night?” she asks. He glares at her in response and she smirks, but doesn’t push it. 

The briefing with his team gets him up to speed on their open cases. Pretty routine stuff – a nasty domestic turned lethal, a couple of stabbings outside a pub – all of which Donovan seems to be handling well. As soon as he’s done with the team he’s whisked away to a budget meeting with the Commander and the Detective Chief Superintendent that lasts well into the afternoon. Sitting becomes an increasingly uncomfortable reminder of the morning’s activities, and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair as the DCS drones on about staffing levels and “force multipliers”. 

When he finally gets some time alone in his office, he sinks gingerly into his desk chair and logs in to his computer, intent on wading through the twenty or so email messages that arrived as he was tied up in meetings. Instead, he sits staring at the screen, eyes unfocused, mind wandering back to that morning. It already seems so distant. If not for the very real soreness he feels, he’d be inclined to think it had happened to someone else in another life. 

Rousing himself with a slight shake, he opens the web browser and types in the search box: _kurt wallander ystad_. He gets a few hits, all in Swedish, of course. He clicks the first link and it takes him to an article in the  _Ystads Allehanda_ , but  the only words he recognizes are “polis” and Kurt’s name. Google’s _translate this page_ option provides a slightly mangled version of the article, but it’s good enough to let him get the gist of it. Apparently, Kurt had been suspended for shooting and killing a suspect last year.

[   
](http://i83.photobucket.com/albums/j313/gloria_scott/fic_graphics/translatedwebsite.jpg)

_  
Well _ , he thinks, _make that item one on the list of transgressions_. 

The suspect had been a real piece of work – a neo-Nazi bent on stirring up hatred and violence – the less of them about the better. Even so, it couldn’t have been an easy thing to deal with. Greg’s glad he’s never had to make that call himself. 

Another link carries him to an artist’s webpage: Povel Wallander, a grizzled, old, bohemian-looking landscape painter. Kurt’s mentioned on the biography page, along with a sister, Kristina.

[   
](http://i83.photobucket.com/albums/j313/gloria_scott/fic_graphics/povelbiopagev1.jpg)

_  
That’s interesting _ , Greg muses. _I wonder what would move an artist’s son to become a policeman._ He himself had followed his father and two uncles into the force. Policing, like military service, often tends to be a family business.

He clicks around a bit more, but comes up empty. It seems the elusive Inspector Wallander has a very thin Internet presence; not altogether unexpected for such an unassuming and quiet man. As if to contradict that thought, his mind suddenly flashes back to Kurt’s hands on him, and the rather surprising way he had dominated their encounter after Greg had taken the early lead. It occurs to him now that he had mistaken quietude for passivity. Kurt’s dominance in bed may have been surprising, but his own reaction to it was even more so. His tussles with men in his unruly youth had all been competitive, ending with him on top more often than not. He had fully expected to remain in control this time, too, but had folded under Kurt’s hands and words quite readily. 

_  
Did you find what you were looking for here?   
_   
Kurt’s question comes unbidden to his mind.

Maybe he had, at that. Maybe that was what he had been looking for, without even knowing it.

He fishes in his pocket for his mobile and types a quick message before his racing heart can cause him to second guess himself.

_  
Mind if I txt or call you, for little or no reason? – Greg   
_

Setting his mobile aside, he tries to shift his attention back to his inbox, answering any priority messages that can’t wait until tomorrow. He’s only half-way through the first message when he hears the buzzing rattle against his desk. Greg picks up the mobile and looks at it with some trepidation, then smiles.

_  
Anytime. – Kurt   
_

****

_  
  
  
_


	5. Keeping Secrets from a Mind Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg dreads his next meeting with Sherlock.

  
****  
  


****

The next morning, Greg spends an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom developing a strategy for dealing with Sherlock and trying to figure out what might give him away. He’s nervous – actually palm-sweatingly nervous – but he promised Sherlock the Murphy files, so he has no choice but to go. Not going would raise suspicions at this point, and tip Sherlock off to the fact that he was trying to hide something.

 _For Christ’s sake, this is crazy_ , Greg thinks. _He’s not super-human…he’s not a bloody mind reader_. Sherlock has a method, and Greg should be familiar enough with it by now to game it. He systematically runs through potential cues:

Scent. There shouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary about the way he smells. He’s showered this morning and used his own shampoo and deodorant and his usual shave cream, so no changes to note there.

Skin. Checking himself over in the mirror for bites, scratches, or other irritations, he finds no visible marks on his face or throat. He digs out a hand mirror from the medicine cabinet and carefully checks the back of his neck. When he pulls his collar back, just to be thorough, there’s the jagged red outline of a bite mark on the back of his left shoulder. Greg frowns when he sees it, but it’s covered by his shirt so that shouldn’t really matter. He sets the mirror down on the sink, and then looks over his wrists, hands, fingers…Shit, the ring! He quickly removes it and places it back on his left hand, feeling a vague twinge of regret.Nothing else amiss, though.

Clothes. Nothing seems out of place, no stains or stray hairs, nothing added or missing from his usual kit. 

He considers preparing some pat answers to questions about the conference, but decides against it. Sherlock is never one for small talk, so he’s not going to ask about the conference. He’ll probably just take the files, complain about having been made to wait for them, and dismiss him like the lackey he thinks Greg is. 

What else, then? What’s he missing? There’s always something. He shifts his weight and winces. Crap – he’s still really sore. It’s not surprising, though, considering the abuse he took not twenty-four hours ago. If he’s not careful, it’ll show in the way that he moves, an unconscious wince, or a sudden intake of breath. It would be slight enough that most people would miss it, but not Sherlock bloody Holmes. He could chalk it up to a bad back; there’s some history there, so it’s plausible. Maybe he should make a point of mentioning it – use a bit of misdirection and complain about the terrible hotel bed he had to sleep on that gave him back spasm. 

_No, best not to call attention to it at all…or mention beds_. He resigns himself to keeping strict control over his movements so he doesn’t trigger any sharp pangs, and doing his best not to let anything show in his facial expressions. That’ll be hard to do, so the best plan, he decides, will be to keep Sherlock bored and disinterested, and to get out as quickly as possible without being obvious about it. He runs a hand through his hair and takes one last look in the mirror before he goes. Picking up the files from the kitchen table on his way out the door, he heads down to the street to hail a cab.

When he arrives at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson lets him in and he attempts to bound up the stairs like he always does. But a sharp pain pulls him up short, and he walks up the rest of the stairs more gingerly, cursing himself for being careless and knowing that Sherlock will likely have noted the modification.

He enters the flat, hoping no one will be in the living room or kitchen so he can just drop the files and go. But Sherlock is sitting at his desk, laptop open in front of him. 

“Ah, Lestrade, you can set them on the desk, please” he says, without looking up. Greg does so, and turns to leave.

“So how was the conference?” Sherlock asks.

 _Shit!_ Greg thinks and grimaces. He schools his features before turning half around, keeping his feet pointing towards the door. Sherlock’s gaze remains fixated on the screen as he types away.

“Fine. It was fine. If that’s all then I’ll just be going.” Greg replies, turning and taking a step closer to the door.

“Learn anything useful?”

Greg stops, but doesn’t turn around again. “No, you know – same old stuff.” He takes another step.

“Make any new contacts?”

“Right,” he says, whirling around. “What are you playing at?” He knows it’s the wrong response, he’s not sticking to the plan, but he can’t keep the sharp defensiveness out of his voice.

Sherlock turns to look at him, a boyish look of confusion clouding his face. “Why so suspicious, Lestrade?”

“I’m not – you’re the one acting suspicious,” Greg snaps. “Since when do you ask stupid questions about boring things, eh? You don’t give a damn about the bloody conference, so what’s your game?”

“That’s what friends do, isn’t it?” Sherlock replies evenly. “Take an interest in each other’s doings?”

“Oh, so we’re friends now, are we?” Greg sneers.

If Greg didn’t know better, that tiny contraction of the brow and infinitesimal narrowing of the eyes could have been a flicker of hurt crossing Sherlock’s face. 

“I should like to think so,” Sherlock replies, and turns back to his computer. Greg’s well up on Eckman’s work on deception and facial expressions. He and his team have taken training to detect and recognize micro-expressions, and he’s sure Sherlock probably has too. Although he’d warrant Sherlock’s probably gone one step further and trained himself how to _make_ them as well. Sherlock’s a master manipulator, and that leaked micro-expression was probably intentional. But then there’s that tiny voice of doubt in the back of Greg’s mind. 

_What if it wasn’t? What if he’s honestly trying to be a better person, and here I am giving him the back of my hand for it?_

Greg sighs and allows his shoulders to sag. “Fine,” he relents. “What do you want to know?”

Sherlock smiles brightly at that and turns his full attention on him, making him feel like a bug under the microscope about to have its legs yanked off by a pair of tweezers. His grand strategy of keeping Sherlock bored and disinterested has completely gone to hell. The shark senses a bleeder; it’s honing in and starting to circle, and Greg tenses up waiting for the first exploratory bite. He needs an escape, and blesses the buzz of his mobile that interrupts Sherlock’s feeding frenzy before it can truly begin. 

“Sorry, mate. Have to go – a dealer’s been knifed in King’s Cross.” Greg makes a speedy exit from the Baker Street flat, berating himself for feeling momentarily grateful that a murder had been committed. 

_I really have been on this job too long_ , he thinks. 

He spends the next twelve hours working the totally pedestrian, senseless homicide case, the last three hours of which are spent in the company of the perpetrator, listening to his drug-addled and rambling confession. When he finally makes it home that night, he’s bone-tired and can’t be arsed to cook anything. He stands in the kitchen, shoveling the remnants of cold Chinese take-out into his mouth while hunched over the counter. Later, as he lies in bed watching the headlights of passing cars creep across his walls, he thinks again of Belfast. Two days away from London, Sherlock, and the criminal element weren’t enough – he needs a real holiday. He puts the ring back on his right hand and thinks Sherlock can go fuck himself.

He reaches for his mobile in the dark. Squinting as the glare of the screen lights his face, he begins to type.

 _So what’s Ystad like this time of year? – Greg_

****


End file.
